


jamie, jamie the stars are shining for you

by blindbatalex



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Fluff and Crack, M/M, a cameo by, becks - Freeform, this is very silly despite the minor turn for angst towards the end
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 15:09:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12914490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blindbatalex/pseuds/blindbatalex
Summary: “Huh,” Phil says as he feeds his frogs, “you can replace the word baby in any song with the name Jamie and it still sounds the same.”





	jamie, jamie the stars are shining for you

**Author's Note:**

  * For [eafay70](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eafay70/gifts), [shutupanddancewithmee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shutupanddancewithmee/gifts).



> Also for dear Megan who is not AO3. Consider this an early holiday gift friends. I love you all. <3
> 
> The idea for this fic came from a brilliant anon I got with the earth shattering revelation that replacing baby with Jamie in any song makes it sound the same. So dear anon, this fic is also for you. And a massive thank you for everyone who pitched with their music knowledge where mine failed!

“Huh,” Phil says as he feeds his frogs, “you can replace the word baby in any song with the name Jamie and it still sounds the same.”

Gary regards his face bent down towards the terrarium. The pensive frown would suit him if he wasn’t illuminated green or didn’t speak such nonsense.

“No, it doesn’t,” Gary replies. The frogs croak in unison to state their disagreement. Honestly where does Phil even find the time to come up with all these ridiculous ideas? Why is Phil thinking of (his) Jamie like he has nothing better do?

*

 _Baby it’s Cold Outside_ is playing in his favorite pasty shop when he stops by later that day. All of Manchester seems to be in the clutches of the incurable holiday fever yet again with more than a month to go until Christmas. 

Gary shuffles where he stands in the queue with displeasure. 

“I’ve got to go home,” the lady sings rather coyly and Dean Martin answers, _but Jamie you’d freeze out there._

It would be cold, a proper blizzard, and Jamie the idiot that he is would have come in a mere sweater. It would be a public duty to ask him to stay really, just for one more drink. And if Gary laid his head on his shoulder because the fire was roaring and he was so warm and so soft, and if he fell asleep -- surely they would blame it on the blizzard and carry on as they were the next day.

“Do you intend to order anything mate or will you just stand there making moon eyes at nothing like my uncle who’s gone soft in the head?”

The question zaps Gary right back into the present. He blinks and clears his throat and does his best to look standoffish and aloof. Given the intense burning sensation on his cheeks and the tips of his ears though he isn’t sure how much he succeeds in hiding his embarrassment. 

_Where the fuck did that come from,_ Gary thinks with disdain as he walks out with a box of pasties in hand. Not for the first time he wonders how nice it would be if feelings were physical things so he could gather them in a pit set them all on fire.

*

Gary doesn’t know who let Carras hold a dinner party at his house or choose the music. Everything is so mellow and low-key it feels like they are all floating around the room in a soft, semi-asleep haze.

In the background the music shifts from Dylan to Cat Stevens. 

_And it's breaking my heart you're leaving / Jamie, I'm grieving,_ Steven sings after a near-endless intro of la la las.

Something in Gary’s heart pangs with sorrow. _I’m sorry,_ thinks, _I should have never left, I know that now. Please stay._ The image is crystal clear in his mind. Jamie just on the other side of the security control waving at him with a bittersweet smile, passport in hand. All the things he couldn’t say, every hug he was too hesitant to give hang like lead weights in Gary’s throat.

“Earth to Gaz,” Becks says from next to him and pokes Gary in the arm. Gary jumps like he has seen a ghost. 

_It isn’t Jamie you were thinking of._

“Switch his wine glass with cranberry juice,” Scholesy mutters from the distance. He is exuding that particular cross of concern and disapproval he has perfected over the years. “My back isn’t strong enough to carry him around anymore.”

Fuck, Gary thinks, fuck fuck fuck.

He didn’t realize he was in this deep.

*

Spinning with Jamie before MNF is always fun -- if one defines fun as hell fire and endless misery. For one Jamie always goes too hard and Gary has no choice but to keep up as a matter of pride (and also to maybe show that he has still got it and is still fit and desirable) but it really isn’t fair. He has retired ages before Jamie and it’s not his fault if the other man _enjoys_ snacking on _carrots_ of his own will. 

It doesn’t help either that their instructor has terrible taste in music and won’t play anything respectable like the Stone Roses or the Charlatans no matter how much Gary tries to coax and woo.

Today is no different. 

First it’s Justin Bieber and the brat seems to be on a mission on how many times one can use the word Jamie, no -- _baby_ in under three minutes. Gary never thought Jamie would always be his and doesn’t think Jamie (or anyone really) can take his pieces and fix it either. Jamie wipes perspiration from his forehead with the back of his hand. Gary looks away. He isn’t a broken clock. It’s stupid.

Next up _What is Love?_ starts to play and Gary huffs in frustration. Everybody knows that song is as relevant as Scouse fans reminiscing of their ancient glorious past. Gary shouldn’t have to be exposed to it in bloody 2017. 

_Jamie don’t hurt me, don’t hurt me, come on_ the speakers boom. Gary grits his teeth and goes extra hard on the pedals, forcing his mind to focus on the burning in his muscles. “Think you can beat me?” Jamie sing songs from the next bike. Gary hates him and his ridiculously tight fitting gym clothes that accentuate just how round and firm his ass is. “Don’t worry love I’ll be gentle this time.”

 _You aren’t bloody helping,_ Gary wants to say. _None of you are helping._

He loses it at Beyonce’s _Love on Top._

 _Jamie it’s you. You’re the one I love,_ the song goes and Jamie looks at him and smiles, like he bloody _knows_. His forehead is shiny with beads of sweat and his short pepper and salt hair, normally so well styled, is now hanging together in clumps. The smile brings out lovely dimples in his cheeks. 

_You are the one I need. You are the only one I see._

Gary’s heart swells with something warm and foreign and overwhelming. He yearns for Jamie, he has been yearning for Jamie for so long, to hold him in his arms and to card his fingers through his hair and to tell him how much he means to Gary, how much he cares. He stands up, though he knows not why and…

...seeing as he is currently on a bike falls right off to the side with a painful thud.

Jamie is there by his side, like lightning, before he can even pull himself up. 

“What the fuck Gary. Are you okay?” he is asking, his grip firm but gentle on Gary’s arm. Gary nods, trying to shift into a marginally less awkward sitting position. His ankle protests the movement with vehemence. Gary wonders what he has sprained worse: it or the last vestiges of his dignity.

*

He doesn’t expect Jamie to follow up with him in his dressing room later. Jamie asks if he is decent and opens the door before waiting for an answer.

“You realize questions matter in so far as they lead to answers, right?” Gary asks, hoping it conveys annoyance.

“Didn’t think you are the type to hang around naked.” Jamie throws him an ice pack. “How is your ankle?”

Gary ignores the question altogether, his ankle the physical materialization of his shame and utter idiocy. It’s pathetic to be over forty and still fall, quite literally, head over heels for anyone. Let alone a man. Let alone Jamie. Jamie who can flirt with anything that breathes and steal its heart from the old lady at the chippy to buff men at the club.

“There is lots you don’t know about me.”

Jamie leans against the side of the couch Gary is sitting on. His gaze bores right through Gary. “Gary,” he asks in that sincere way of his, like the only thing he cares about in that moment is you, “what’s wrong?”

Gary feels tired. His ankle hurts and the weight of every romance he fucked up, every partner he watched leave hangs heavy on his feet like lead, draining his energy.

“You can replace the word baby in any song with Jamie and it still sounds the same,” he says looking at the floor. “I thought it was just Phil at his nonsense again but it actually works.”

“What?”

“Try it,” Gary says. He definitely sounds bitter. He finds that he can’t bring himself to care. “I really can’t stay but Jamie it’s cold outside. I’ve got a blank space Jamie and I’ll write your name.” 

Jamie looks at him, his face curious, searching, unreadable and their eyes meet. 

“Jamie I’ve been here before--” Gary falters. Something hurts in his chest among the cobwebs around his heart. “I know this room and I walked this floor-- Any song. It works.”

“Oh Gary.” 

Jamie slides down so that he is sitting right next to Gary, close enough for their legs to touch. 

He brings up his hand to cup Gary’s cheek. Gary wishes he wouldn’t. The last thing he wants is pity, no matter how warm Jamie’s hand, no matter how much he finds himself leaning into it.

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

Now it’s Gary’s turn to be confused. There is no pity or disdain in Jamie’s voice. Just...quiet heartache, oddly enough. “What?”

“I’ve been--flirting at you. In person. On twitter -- everywhere for months and I thought. I thought if there was anything there you would. You know--”

Gary stops to take a breath and blinks just to make sure he is hearing this right. Jamie’s eyes are on the floor and there is a faint pink blush on his cheeks. 

“But you flirt with everyone.”

Jamie looks up at him. “Gary,” he says, like he is pointing out something very obvious, “I even changed my profile picture to you--twice.”

Gary hadn’t thought.

But now that Gary thinks.

“Is that why you follow Becks on Instagram when he doesn’t follow you back?” he asks, “why you keep calling my denim shirts Beckham hand me downs?” His voice possibly goes a couple notes higher than he intended to in the end.

Jamie huffs. His hand finds Gary’s on the couch. “You daft man,” he says, “will you kiss me or will you just sit there nattering away about Becks?”

Gary grins. 

There is only one answer to that question.

**Author's Note:**

> my [tumblr](https://blindbatalex.tumblr.com/) if you’d like to come yell at me. Kudos and comments are my lifeblood. I may or may not respond to comments with yet more lyrics one can mishear. 
> 
> ((The Carra and Becks instagram thing is super real by the way. I’m not saying Carra is keeping tabs on Becks but Carra is probably keeping tabs on Becks.))


End file.
